Page 60 of Cozen

“But you do it incredibly well.”

Good for me.

Sargon almost felt like Jett’s patronizing could have been helped along with a pat on the back, too. He didn’t say that out loud.

Instead, he tossed the folder he’d been holding over to his boss. The manila file slid across the shiny oak tabletop, and skidded to a stop under Jett’s waiting hand.

Sargon leaned back in the chair as Jett opened up the file, and waited the man out. He figured if Jett wanted his opinion, or needed to know more information, then he would ask. He didn’t have anything to offer.

Not that he hadn’t looked at the information in the folder. He had. He knew every little detail about Cozen’s life that could be found because he had been obsessing over the contents of the folder from the moment he got the information two days ago.

He wasn’t going to tell Jett that he had the information for that long, however.

A good fifteen minutes passed. Fifteen minutes of shuffling papers, and the occasional murmur or mutter from Jett. None of which were directed right at Sargon.

Finally, Jett closed the folder, and gave Sargon a look.

“What?” he asked.

Jett leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “Seems she has lived a rather difficult life.”

Sargon nodded. “Dropped off at a fire station as a young infant, and then passed from foster home to foster home. One of which—because your guy looked in to that—was closed down for legal reasons. The husband and wife were quite abusive. Some of the minors in their care suggested sexual molestation, too, but that was never confirmed.”

His boss cleared his throat. “I saw that, too. She would have been what, thirteen or so when she was at that particular home?”

“According to the documents found.”

“Ran away, apparently,” Jett added.

“Maybe she had a reason to.”

“Mmm.” Jett’s gaze drifted to the folder before he said, “She was moved to another foster home before running away after a couple of years of living at that one, too.”

“Sixteen,” Sargon said, glancing up at the ceiling. “She would have been just shy of sixteen, then.”

“Not much is on record for her after that. Why do you think that is?”

“Probably because like all runaways, she did what she could do. Worked where she could work, or did whatever she had to do to stay alive. Slept wherever there was shelter. Who knows? People don’t mind taking advantage of that sort of thing—a worker they don’t have to pay health insurance or taxes for, you know.”

“She showed up at nineteen in California to get a license,” Jett noted. “And some other documents, apparently.”

“The address used checked out to a mid-list apartment complex. I take it she was probably doing moderately okay in her life by that point.”

“As in, maybe she found a decent job, or whatever else, and settled into a good space.”

“Looks like it,” Sargon agreed.

“So why New York?”

Sargon met Jett’s gaze. “Maybe she was tired of the sun. Or maybe she’s got a restless heart, and needed to move again. Look at the file again, Jett. The woman has spent the majority of her life on the run.”

Jett smiled a little, and nodded. “Maybe she’s looking for home.”

A twinge panged in Sargon’s chest.

Home.

Where was that?